The canoe was quickly past the fort, gliding like a duck on the swift current, and now the other craft was dimly sighted about a hundred yards down stream.
"I knew he couldn't be far," muttered Barnabas. "Paddle hard, lads. He can't do much with that heavy boat. This is going to be the last of Simon Glass, or else the last of me."
"We have no weapons," exclaimed Nathan.
"Neither has he, lad, or he would a-fired at the sentry who tried to stop him."
"I hope he won't take the shore when he sees we're after him," said Godfrey.
"He's too badly hurt to do that," replied Barnabas. "No; we're goin' to get him. I feel it in my bones. He'll pay with his life for venturin' this far after them papers. When he lay in ambush that night he must have heard us speak of stopping at the forts, an' I reckon he tramped all this distance alone."
During part of the above conversation a bend of the river had concealed the fugitive from view, and now, as the pursuers swung around, the two canoes were seen to be less than forty yards apart. Glass was close to shore, struggling desperately to drive his heavy and unwieldy craft, while with scarcely any effort Nathan and Godfrey urged their lighter boat forward.
The distance rapidly decreased to twenty yards—fifteen—ten. Now the ruffian's scarred face could be seen by the moonlight that was breaking through the clouds, as he looked back at quick intervals. And shortly ahead of him was the line of noisy rapids, white with dashing foam and spray, black with outcropping bowlders and ledges.
"We'll hardly ketch him this side the falls," muttered Barnabas. "It ain't an easy passage. Watch sharp for the rocks, an' don't—"
Just then Simon Glass dropped his paddle and twisted himself around in the stern. "I won't be taken alive!" he yelled, "and I'll kill one of you first." With that he drew a big pistol, leveled it at Barnabas, and fired.